


Be Good

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-04
Updated: 2006-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gift of obedience is double-edged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Good

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2006.

"God, Dean, just _shut up_." 

Sam leaned back in his seat, trying vainly to stretch his legs again, and frowned to himself when they just folded awkwardly beneath the dashboard, coltish and sore. 

He rubbed his fingers gently over his temples, trying to ignore the pain lancing through his skull. After a few blessedly silent moments passed, he slanted a look to his left, eyebrows raised in half-surprise that Dean hadn't come up with a snappy retort. 

The familiar mouth opened, and he reflexively steeled himself for the coming quip, face set tight against the shape of sharp syllables, waited for it. 

And waited. 

He snuck another look at Dean, who was driving like he always did, slouched a little in the seat, thighs spread comfortably, one hand on the steering wheel. He was glaring at Sam, mouth working but no sound emerging. 

"Dean?" Sam ventured. 

No response, unless you counted what looked like an abortive attempt at the finger. 

" _Dean_." 

Nothing but the slightly manic drumming of Dean’s fingers on his thigh and the force of his glare directed at Sam. 

Sam sighed, rolling his eyes, 

"Dean, look, I thought we got past the silent treatment thing when we were kids. Come on, seriously."

Dean opened his mouth again, lips rounding to form words that Sam could almost see, but he just gasped empty air instead, choked on it, chest hitching and lips moving silently.

Eyes a little wide, he shot a look at Sam, his free hand going to his throat. 

"Dean?" 

When Dean met his eyes, there was something close to panic forming in the thin line of his lips and the tightness around his eyes. He blinked a few times, pale behind his freckles, and shook his head a few times. 

Something cold was slowly uncurling in Sam's gut, and he reached out automatically, one hand sliding under Dean's jacket to splay across his chest. He could feel the heat of Dean's skin, warm through the thin cotton, and the swift, thready beat of Dean's heart against his palm.

He tried to parse something out from his brother's face, but Dean wasn't looking at him, just scrambling around in his pockets for something. A pen? The breath was still coming from his open mouth, just no words. 

Then Dean jerked, head turning to the road, and his hands were back on the steering wheel. Sam caught a flash of silver ahead of them, the rear end of some asshole speeding away. There was an agonized screech of tires and a sharp swerve that sent both of them tumbling. 

"Jesus," he whispered, thrown sideways against the door, head ringing. They seemed to be slung sideways along the shoulder, everyone else speeding past. 

He shook his head and looked over. Dean was slumped over the steering wheel, one hand still loosely curled around it, his face hidden and body terribly still. 

"Dean," he managed, voice hoarse and cracking a little, "Dean!"

He slipped his hands around his brother, bringing him back so his head lolled against the seat. 

"Dean, come on." His voice wound up embarrassingly, but he couldn't really find it in himself to care. 

Throat tight and heart tripping, he gave Dean's cheek a light slap, arms reaching around his back so when Dean fell forward, it was into the crook of his neck, safe. 

He was rewarded with a tiny groan and a lazy shifting of limbs in his arms. Sam leaned back anxiously, watched Dean's eyes flutter open as he brought a hand to his head, eyes crinkling with a wince.

He started pushing Sam's arms away, folding in on himself and ducking his head, a familiar disgusted look coming over his face, his mouth opening to sling over the accompanying retort, but there was only silence. 

Dean stopped cold, tried again, a screen of worry coming over his eyes. 

"What is it?" Sam tried. "What do you need?" 

Dean was rubbing his throat, his mouth, face drawn tight and body tense. 

" _Dean!_ Talk to me, come on."

"- just knocked my head against the window, nothing to worry about, you pussy." 

Dean froze, looking shocked that the words managed to make their way out of his mouth. He stared down at his own hand around his throat, and then back at Sam, eyes wide. Sam could tell he was working his way through the possible causes already by the way he was biting his lip and the cant of his head. 

"Well that was pretty fucking weird," Dean finally grit out, revving up the Impala. 

 

 

"So what, you couldn't talk, and now you can't stop?" 

Sam pushes his eggs around idly. The diner's A/C sounded like it was running on its own death rattle, and the thick aroma of grease and something that he hoped was only unwashed truckers wasn't doing much to liven up his appetite. 

Across from him, Dean's face looked close to haggard. 

"Yeah, it was fucking creepy, Sammy. Like I wanted to say something, but I just...stopped. No reason. Just couldn't get a word out. And I can't stop, coming no matter what, like I have to talk to you or - dammit I don't even know, Sammy. I'm not even sure what the freaking hell I'm saying anymore. I'm just, you know - "

His voice was ragged, choked, like he'd been smoking his whole life or just screamed till his throat bled. He kept going even when Sam looked away, a constant, low murmur that set his teeth on edge, sometimes trailing off into incoherence, only to start up again, slow and hesitant.

He hadn't stopped talking since the highway, looked impossibly tired. 

There was a fine layer of sweat on Dean's forehead, darkening his hairline and glistening against his tan. His pancakes drooped untouched in front of him, neither the heady scent of the syrup nor the slow, dragging heat enough to dry out Dean's ongoing monologue. 

His lips were cracked _hadn't stopped for even a sip of water since they got in_ and his eyes were wide.

"Dean," Sam said finally, desperate, "just try to stop, ok? Take a break." 

Then silence. 

Not real silence, since the hiss and gurgle of the kitchen was still ringing out behind them. The familiar melange of voices taking orders, making them, chatting about inane things, filtered back into his ears - clink of stacked plates being shuffled, trickle of coffee being refilled. 

But it was like he'd been listening to a radio for hours, only for it to just shut off with a click, the familiar drone finally gone from his ears. Dean looked strained, diving for the glass of water and just gulping it down, his throat working as he drained the glass and absently wiped his mouth. 

Then he went for the pancakes, completely ignoring the thick air and sticky tabletop that had Sam only picking at his food. He watched as bite after bite disappeared until Dean was still hunched eagerly over the plate, intent on scraping up the last bit of syrup, dead to the rest of the world.

It wasn't like Dean was usually Miss Manners, but this was a little over the top even for him. 

"Hey," he said, trying for gentle, "you ok?" 

Dean spared him a scathing look before reaching over to steal the rest of Sam's water. 

When their waitress came back, she looked like she's just climbed out of a warzone, bottle red hair hanging in damp straggles around the nape of her neck and makeup caking in the heat. 

"Anything else, boys?" 

She had a smoker's low voice, several years older than her face. 

"No, thanks, just the check," Sam says absently. When his eyes wandered over to Dean, still licking dry lips, he coughed, smiled at her. 

"Actually, maybe some more water? Can you bring the pitcher?" 

The waitress nodded, unfazed, completely missing Dean's annoyed glare and Sam's answering shrug. 

"Sure, honey, that all?" 

Dean looked pointedly at Sam, then leaned back lazily in his seat and grinned up at her, eyes crinkling and lips curved invitingly. 

"Now," his head cocked, a glance flicked at the cracked nametag, "Charlene, I can think of a few things."

He only just croaked it out, but the unidentifiable drawl was back in his voice, dragging out the syllables to match the dripping heat and slow pace of the day. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but he shaped his mouth around her name like a caress. 

Sam barely held back the roll of his eyes.

The waitress didn't seem much more impressed. She didn't even look at him, just scribbled something on their check and slapped it down on the table. The paper immediately dampened from the condensation collecting around their glasses. She didn't notice.

"Darling," she nodded at Dean, who perked up a little in his seat despite the stifling heat, "don't even try." 

And amazingly, he didn't. 

 

 

"This is stupid, Dean, we have no idea what the hell happened to you. What if it has to do with this? We shouldn't be hunting it until figure it out." 

"It's just a fucking revenant, Sammy. Far as I know, stealing your voice isn't exactly on their normal to do list." 

Sam frowned at his still-hoarse rasp. 

"Not just taking it away, giving it back. Permanently. You're the one who almost lost your voice. You don't think it's _weird_ at all?"

"Of course I think it's _weird_ , but we got a job to take care of, genius," Dean glared at him, squinting a little in the bright sunshine, "so move your ass." 

Sam imagined smacking him over the head with a shovel, gave it some serious thought, and then discarded the idea as a waste of energy. Dean's stubborn expression said he wasn't going to give on this one. Lost cause.

He distractedly ran a hand through his hair, damp from sweat. The day was already too hot to be having this argument, and it'd just barely begun. When he looked up, the sky seemed to pulse with the haze of heat, even the sunlight dull and slow to shine. Dean's T-shirt was plastered to his back with sweat, but he trudged on, unfazed, shovel clutched in one hand. He seemed to heave a put upon sigh. Sam ground his teeth. 

"Well, if it _does_ have something to do with it, we'll know when take down the fucker, won't we?" 

Sam pulled to a halt, hands on his thighs, sucking in the molasses-thick air that seemed to curl around everything like a blanket. 

"Dean, can you _listen_ to me for once?" 

"No, that's why I'm older. Now come on, the sooner we get this thing the better." 

"Dean, I'm serious."

Straightforward statements like that rarely got through Dean's skull, but he had to give it a shot. 

"So am I."

Dean raised an eyebrow, rolling his eyes with his whole body. 

"Dude, hurry up." 

Sam sighed, "Fine," and forced his legs to keep moving uphill. 

When they finally reached the grave site, air marginally cooler at the top of the wooded hill, Dean zeroed in on a sickly looking copse of trees with his usual uncanny rapport for unmarked graves. Sam looked down. The earth, dark and freshly turned, had the stale-sweet smell of recent death and still rotting flesh. He remembered standing over Jessica's grave, both the rainy gray reality and the vivid sunshine of his dream, and wondered if there was someone who still missed the person that the revenant had been. 

Dean swiped a hand across his face, succeeding only in streaking a mark of dirt across one cheekbone. He frowned, stripped off his shirt, mopping around his face and neck, shoulders gleaming in the bright sunlight. There was a line of sweat crossing a clean, pale line through the dirt from his forehead.

"Come on, it's fresh daylight, so it should still be here." 

He sunk the shovel deliberately into the earth, sending the first load of dirt arcing through the air. Sam glanced around; the area seemed secluded, but the sun was up high and they had little to hide behind. Dean's face suddenly appeared in his line of vision, squinting. 

"Yo," he snapped his fingers, "Sammy? Stay with me here, ok? Let's get this over with." 

Sam nodded and hefted his own shovel. 

The grave was deep, so they took shifts in and out.

Sam was the first to hit something solid, the tremors running up the handle of the shovel to jar his arms. 

"Hey, Dean," he grunted, panting thickly, wishing he'd disposed of his own shirt. "Got something." 

Dean leaned over the side of the hole from where he'd been spotting for them, torso yawning out lean and sun reddened from where his jeans hung low over the sharp angles of his hip bones. 

Sam scraped the last of the dirt off to reveal the remains of a busted up pine box. The stench that wafted up was unnervingly fresh, blood with the faint scent of flowers underneath. 

Dean wrinkled his nose, turning his head to one side, "Dude, why do they always _reek_?" 

Sam had a moment of mercy, and didn't take the opening. Instead he just stretched up, bringing the shovel down hard on the wood until it splintered with an eerie shriek.

"Well someone definitely clawed their way out of here before. Toss me the cross?" 

There was a shuffling sound, and Sam looked up to see a brown hand releasing the wooden form, stark against the hot, blue sky. 

He wrenched the coffin the rest of the way open, and they both stared. Thick silence while Sam tried to swallow around the awful roil of his gut. 

"Oh my God," Dean whispered finally. 

Judging by the state of the coffin, the revenant was at least a couple decades old, but the girl in the box looked barely pubescent under the slough of rotting flesh and peeling skin. The scent of flowers _long dead blossoms lining the coffin_ , and of blood, was stronger now. Sam had to bring his elbow around his face, but it didn't prevent him from seeing the old loveliness in the sweep of bone and hair hidden under the rot.

"Jesus," Dean breathed from above, "she's just a kid." 

But she looked bloated, an unnatural fresh blush lining arms and legs. 

"She's had a few meals already," Sam said quietly. "Must have been the people in the papers." 

He looked up to see Dean nod, face darkened by the halo of light surrounding him.

Swallowing, and suddenly itchy in his skin, he gingerly held the cross over her, whispering the first words of prayer, knife ready to take her heart once it was done. 

Her eyes snapped open, one lid missing, just as the first Latin rolled out of his mouth, and Sam lept back instinctively, knife hand sweeping up. 

She looked almost panicked, fear and hunger warring in her slack features, and clawed at the sides of the grave. She blew past him with a unsettling, damp sound and began scrabbling her way up to where Sam could already see the wicked curve of a blade in Dean's hand.

He blinked into motion and tried to hold her back, but she was unnaturally strong in her single-minded desire to get out, kicking back, and the flesh was practically coming off in his hands. 

He threw himself at the high wall of dirt, struggling to heave himself out just as Dean had her down on the ground, strings of rotting skin scattered over where one hand should have been. Sam saw the mixture of fresh blood and rot lining the knife, and the hand itself, a few feet away. 

She was struggling in his grip, more skin coming off with each throe, unnatural breath hitching in what sound sound eerily like sobs, ragged and horrible. 

"Sam!" 

What Sam liked to call Dean's Dad voice, deep like a shot and commanding. 

"The cross!" 

He rolled forward, words spinning out of his mouth, when the revenant looked straight at Dean, what was left of her eyes wild and desperate. 

"Stop," she gargled out through ruined vocal chords, like breaking glass and torn flesh. " _Stop_." 

And Dean did, just froze right in place, knife still in hand. 

Sam stared in shock for a moment, and the revenant had something like surprise in her face as well, but she reacted more quickly, taking the opportunity to lunge up, slender form pitching itself at Dean until their positions were reversed.

He could only see her ratty nest of once-blonde hair clouding over Dean's face as she sunk her mouth eagerly to his throat. 

"Dean!" 

Heart tripping, he sprang forward, knife digging into her back until she arched, yowling. He felt the blade plunge through brittle ribs and wrenched it left on instinct until he hooked onto meat.

She jerked against him, yowling, and he knew it was the heart.

Through gasps, he choked out the last words of the prayer, cross pressed to the back of her head, and then she was just a limp corpse crumbling to the ground. 

Dean had a hand pressed to his throat, blood seeping out from around it, dark against his skin. His eyes were dazed, a soft, stunned expression in their dark hollows.

"Dean, hey Dean." 

Sam looked around for the discarded shirt. Not finding it, he stripped off his own to hold to the wound. It was messy, and needed to be cleaned, but it didn't look too deep. He was more about the specter of Dean freezing up in front of the girl.

"Come on, Dean, get up. Let's get you into the car, ok?" 

And Dean did, almost automatically, though it clearly pained him. Sam frowned.

He ended up half-carrying his unsteady brother, both of them breathless before they even cleared the grave site.

It was a long way back down. 

 

 

"A curse?" 

Dean's voice was hoarser still for the wound at his throat, white bandaging stark around his neck. 

Sam nodded.

"It's almost like..you have to obey every order, as long as it's direct." 

He got an incredulous stare, Dean's _what the hell you been smoking, Sammy?_ look, honed for years. 

Sam sighed, "Dean, what other explanation do you have? I tell you to shut up, you can't talk. I tell you to talk, you can't stop. That waitress blew you off, and you actually backed off, which normally, I guess would be a sign of the apocalypse or something, but there's obviously something else going on."

Dean's expression didn't change, but he calmly and feelingly said, "Fuck you." 

"Sit," growled Sam, glaring. 

Dean immediately plopped onto the bed even as he was protesting. Sam gave him a pointed look, ignoring the mulish expression and crossed arms.

"All right, all right," he hissed finally. "I get your point." 

"Dean, this could be dangerous, that revenant almost _killed_ you!" 

"Yeah, well she didn't, did she?" 

"It was pretty damn close," Sam shot back. "Face it, this is a liability. We have to figure it out." 

The motel A/C was only just stuttering along, and Sam had both windows open, but the air didn't seem to want to move at all, only encroaching on them both, sweet and thick. 

Dean flopped backward onto the pillows, clad in a pair of grungy boxers with - were those _penguins?_ \- and frayed edges, his bandages, the familiar amulet, and nothing else. Sam shifted uncomfortably on his own bed, the cheap polyester of the coverlet sticking to the backs of his thighs. 

He deliberately cut through the sullen silence emanating from the other side of the room. 

"You piss anyone off lately?" 

He idly considering going to get more ice, but the box was two flights and a short, outside walk away in the local convenience store, and he could barely convince himself to finish unpacking their things in the corner of the tiny room. 

"Not that I can remember," Dean grumbled. 

"Dean, come on, help me out here." 

"We _should_ be out there tracking down whoever raised that revenant. Don't you have some leads?" 

Sam glared, "We are not leaving this room until we figure out how to stop...whatever this is." 

Dean stood up and started rooting around in his bag, sniffing for a clean shirt and jeans.

"Come on, Sammy, we'll figure it out as we go. There was another death in the paper this morning, torn to pieces, blood drained, same deal. Animal attack, my ass. Our girl wasn't the only one."

"Yeah, like you almost were? Dean, don't be dumb. If the wrong person so much as tells you the wrong thing, we're both screwed."

That seemed to puncture the zeal. Dean sat down heavily, a crumpled shirt still in his hands.

"Ok fine, we deal with this first then. But I don't like this, Sammy." 

He stared at the grimy coverlet, "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly overjoyed either."

Dean was demolishing what looked like a bag of stale potato chips, chewing loudly and spraying Sam's bed with spit and crumbs.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Jesus, _Dean._ "

"What?"

Mouth full and eyes all wide and innocent, but Sam could see the whisper of deliberate irritation in there. The thought struck him slowly, and he grinned.

"Dean," he leaned back, "stop eating the chips and clean up my bed."

Dean glared pure death at him, but he was already swallowing his mouthful and bending down to sweep all the crumbs off the edge of the mattress into an open palm. The swearing had already begun by the time the bag was in the trash.

"Goddamit, Sam, does this look like a _joke_ to you?"

It seemed more like a whole lot of dreams he'd had when they'd been younger.

Years and years of badly timed noogies, Indian sunburns, and Nair, how could he forget the Nair? Dean was an expert in these sort of things, knew exactly the type of expression he could wear that would guarantee the sky rocketing of Sam's blood pressure. 

Dean finally sighed, finished with his clean up, and flopped down on Sam's bed in an indecent sprawl that managed to take up all the remaining space.

"Screw you, Sam. You're gonna regret this when we get outta this thing." His eyes weren't even open, one arm tossed casually across his face, blocking the light, and voice muffled half sleepily.

Sam rolled his eyes, "Blow me." 

There was no moment of indecision or shock or anything, because Dean was already off the bed and on his knees, fingers slipping under the band of Sam's boxers, by the time he processed what he just said. Sam backed up, panicked, throat locking. 

Dean looked straight at him as he took Sam's cock out of his boxers, eyes dark in the hazy light, bright through the thickness of his lashes. 

"This what you want, Sammy?" 

Voice dark, low, promising something, and fuck him if he knew what, no trace of sleepiness now. 

Then those lips, that Sam used to watch sometimes, in girl's mouths, spread thin when Dean was angry, around all the disgusting food he managed to stuff himself with, were wrapped around the tip of his cock, the rough swipe of Dean's tongue shocking him. He strained hard in Dean's mouth, sweat tracking down his spine and shoulders in the heat, but the thickness of the air was nothing compared the tightness around his cock. Nothing but pure sensation. He could barely think about the consequences. 

He arched back, moaning, as Dean gamely took more of him in until he was gagging around it, and Sam could only helplessly thrust further in, his hands catching the damp softness of Dean's hair and gouging the sweat slicked skin of his shoulder. 

Then he opened his eyes, remembered for a moment where they were, why they were here.

"Dean," his voice was choked, "stop, please, this isn't right." 

And just like that, the heat was gone, and he couldn't keep down a small moan at the loss of it. Dean was kneeling in front of him, a thin trail of spit still connecting his swollen lips to the angry red curve of Sam's cock. He looked breathless, eager. Sam thought it was one of the hottest things he'd ever seen, and immediately kicked himself for thinking it.

He swallowed, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." 

Words meaninglessly dribbling out of his mouth, the full danger of whatever this was striking him now. 

Then Dean was leaning over him, one hand on his cock and the other on his spread thighs, close enough that Sam could feel his heart pounding beneath the sweaty tan of his chest. 

"Don't be." 

Dean was practically in his lap, erection tenting his boxers, hard against Sam's stomach. A flash of heat streaked through him, and he was suddenly diamond hard again, flesh remembering Dean's mouth and Dean's eager eyes. No teasing here, and maybe he could admit to himself now what he'd been watching for a long time, even if it was just the heat getting to his head. It was weird, supporting Dean's weight, hardly any effort on this part, how much _smaller_ his brother seemed to have gotten, when he'd always been lofty in Sam's head, even when reality said different. Sam remembered the waitress in the diner, a thousand girls like her, the risk, the _fear_ of anyone being able to say _anything_ , and Dean going down. He couldn't even name whatever was coursing through him: fear, possession, anger.

"Get up," he said, low and hard, like Dad might have, like Dean tried to all the time. 

His cock jerked when Dean just did it, automatically, helplessly, but there was a familiar sly grin on his features. 

"Take off your boxers," his voice grew low in his confidence. 

Dean's hands, large and brown, skimmed the curve of muscle at his hip and slid the sweat damp black cloth down the length of his thighs. When he bent over to toe out of them, Sam swallowed at the clean line of spine and back exposed, hard muscle under smooth skin. Not a jerkoff mag this, but his own brother, scarred and perfect. 

He looked as hard as Sam felt, cock arching eagerly upwards, a tongue swiping out to lick his lips. 

"Go the wall." 

It was almost eerie how there was no response time, no fight or anything on Dean's face. He just went. 

"Face it. Don't move." 

Sam was slowly stroking his own cock now, thinking about how the ugly paisley pattern of the wallpaper looked ridiculous against Dean's tanned skin. He got off the bed, rifling through Dean's bag until he found the tiny complimentary bottles of shampoo, conditioner and cream that he knew Dean lifted from every two-bit motel they blasted through. 

Dean watched him carefully from out of the corner of his eye, straining his neck, and Sam smiled to see him swallow when Sam started smearing the cheap conditioner over the length of his cock, the once cool cream almost luke warm from the heat but still smooth on his sensitive skin. 

He moved toward the wall, right up close until he was blanketing Dean, the heat between their bodies almost unbearable, shifted so he nudged his cock, warm and slick with the conditioner, right between Dean's legs, barely brushing his entrance. 

Dean shuddered just slightly when Sam ran his other hand down the length of his spine, leaving a warm, damp trail of sweat and conditioner cream that looked too much like come to calm Sam's nerves. 

He bit the back of Dean's neck, dipped his head and arched up until he had Dean's ear caught gently between his teeth. 

"Spread," he growled, surprising even himself with how low his voice managed to drop, and Dean's answering shiver was certainly not part of the order. 

He did it almost immediately, thighs spreading invitingly so Sam could press that much closer, muscles shifting right against him. And when Sam reached around casually, his cock, hard and straining, was already leaking precome. 

Sam brought his hand to Dean's lips. 

"Taste yourself." 

There was a hot, damp tongue lapping at his fingers, eager and greedy, before he even finished getting the words out. 

Sam circled one hip with his hand, loving how Dean was utterly pliant beneath him, breath hitching and spread open just for him, his usual quips missing. His head was half dizzy from the blanketing heat, but this was just for them, silent except their breathing. 

He planted the other hand on the hideous wallpaper right beside Dean's head and thrust forward, sinking into his willing brother. 

Dean chuckled, wry and a little cocky like always, gasping out obscenities beneath his breath that were too low to catch. Sam pulled back, gasped at how Dean held onto him, and snapped his hips forward again, hand tightening on the skin and bone beneath him, using the wall as leverage, thrust until all the usual smugness was utterly erased from Dean's voice, leaving only desperate little breaths and high moans that Sam knew he would deny later. Just right and this _sound_ , this _aching_ little sound he could listen to forever.

And God, Dean was tight, so tight, ready to take him in like a vice, a furnace inside that made the sweat break out anew on Sam's body. 

"Sammy," the word ground out, not as easily as it usually was, " _please._ "

"That's it," he says, picking up the pace till Dean's knees all but buckled against the wall and Sam had to haul him up by his hip, right into the next thrust. 

"That's it," and he was swelling with the power, "beg for me." 

And the litany began, Dean's voice low in a way that went straight to his cock, but softer than he'd ever heard it. He could hear Dean's open mouth, lips curved just so, and Dean's wide eyes, lashes damp with sweat and tears, all of it, in the desperate little things whispered to the wall. 

"Please, Sam, harder, harder, fuck me..."

It went on, a pleasant thrum right against him, not always coherent but in that soft, surprising tone that set his heart hammering and his cock even harder. 

He put both hands against the wall, levering himself, and slammed Dean into it on his next thrust, even the string of begging shattered by the gasp that escaped him. He closed his eyes so he was just surrounded by the heat, the slick feel of Dean's skin against his chest, the unbelievably tight hold Dean had on his cock, like a glove working the length of him. 

He leaned his head forward, hair falling into his eyes, loved the broken sounds that Dean was making, loved how he just spread his thighs even more, no order there, so Sam could drive harder, drive deeper until he thought he must be breaking something. 

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Dean whispered, because Sam never told him to _stop_. "Please, I'm gonna come, please, Sammy, oh God, please." 

Sam circled around Dean's hips with one hand, curled it around the ready cock until Dean just moaned into the wall, clenching tight around him and thrusting back desperately. Then there were the warm, wet strands of Dean's come all over his hand, as Dean tightened impossibly around him, breath high even as he kept mumbling, sweat streaming down his back so Sam could lick it off him _salt and Dean_. 

Sam managed a few more hard thrusts that sent Dean into the wall again, flesh slamming against plaster, before he felt his balls tighten, and he gasped as he came, long and hard.

"Stop, you can stop begging, oh _God_." 

His voice broke a little embarrassingly on the last word as they tumbled to the floor by the wall in a heap of sweaty limbs, spent and gasping. 

The heat of the day seemed to slam back over Sam, as he rolled onto his back, chest heaving. The decorations on the ceiling were just as ugly as the wallpaper. 

He looked over at Dean, sprawled bonelessly beside him, eyes dazed and completely fucked out. 

He reached over, palming Dean's thigh, and sliding between his legs, until his fingers were coated with his own come and he could feel the slick delicate stretch of Dean's hole, hot, swollen. 

Dean moaned against him, almost curling up, his lashes sweeping down once. He looked like a broken doll on the floor, used and tossed aside. 

Sam managed to shift his limbs so he had an arm around Dean, but it really was too hot, so he gave it up, settling for lying back and having his breath slow down.

"Dude," Dean said, one hand fingering the loosened bandage at his throat, "was that your attempt at a cure?" 

Sam was glad to hear the half-laugh in his voice. He absently swatted Dean's flank. 

"You whined like a _girl._ "

"I'll kick your ass," not a very potent threat when it seemed neither of them could move.

"Jerk."

"Bitch." 

 

 

They tracked the revenant summoner down to a beat down old house on the south side of town, painted a fading yellow, with vines curling around the walls, the gutters. 

Sam stared at it.

"It looks so, I don't know, _normal_." 

"Don't they always," Dean quipped. "Come on." 

Sam got out of the Impala, leaned back into the window.

"Ok, remember the plan, right? You don't come in unless I call, got it?" 

Dean looked mutinous, and for a second, Sam was afraid they'd have to have the argument all over again, but he ended up just sighing.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. What if the bitch takes your phone? " 

Sam smiled, "I'll scream." 

Dean frowned at that, "This is the worst plan ever." 

"Dean, we tested this for hours, ok? You can resist a little, but it hurts. No way I'm letting you go in there. I can't even just order you not to listen to anyone - you know it doesn't last." 

"Fine, get yourself killed, see if I care."

Dean was apparently taking the five year old route so Sam just rolled his eyes, cocked his gun, and headed toward the door to pick the lock. 

The inside was just as distressingly normal as the outside, sunlight streaming in the windows, paintings lining the quaint, little hallway. 

He turned, gun drawn, into what looked like a nice, brightly lit kitchen, clean tiled floor and matching curtains. There were...cookies baking? 

"Excuse me, who are you?" 

Sam whirled around to see a pleasant looking woman standing behind him. She was small and slim, barely reaching his chest in height, face smooth and of indeterminate age. 

"Can I help you?" 

She prompted, looking a little threatened. 

Sam was starting to think they screwed up, got the wrong house, then his eyes darted to the kitchen, the jar resting on the counter. It was a deep, rich red, almost black, could almost be wine or cordial, but too viscous for that, clinging to the glass. 

Sam knew better. 

It was blood. 

He brought the gun right over her heart.

"I know what you did. Why'd you raise them?" 

Her eyes narrowed, the pleasant features suddenly pale and sharp in the light. 

"I don't know who you think you are, coming into my house like this but - " 

Sam fired a warning shot, thinking of the dead little girl, her horrible, wretched sobs, and the smell of flowers. 

She flinched, stopped, eyes cutting to the smoking hole in the wall behind her.

Sam said, "Just come with me. I won't shoot if you don't resist." 

"And what? You'll turn me into the cops? What're you going to tell them?" 

Her voice was bitter and not at all smooth now. He caught the twitch just a second before she moved, but by then it was too late. Her hand shot out and there was powder exploding through the air. Sam got a faceful, inhaled it before he could stop himself. His gun hand buckled suddenly, and then his leg. It didn't hurt at all, just a weird, spreading numbness as his limbs started to fail him, the gun finally clattering to the floor. 

"Neat trick, isn't it?" 

The woman was grinning into his face. 

"Don't worry, it usually wears off in twenty minutes or so. Then again, you probably won't be around to enjoy that." 

Sam swore under his breath, tried straining again for the gun, but it was no good, he really couldn't move. 

She was efficiently tying him to a chair before the front door caved in and a familiar voice streaked through the house. 

"Sammy? Sammy!" 

Sam jerked his head up, and the woman rolled her eyes derisively. Her height didn't seem to matter now, and there was a cold arrogance to the way she held herself that wouldn't have been amiss on royalty.

"Let me guess, back up? Cute." 

Dean turned the corner, shot gun in hand, eyes wild. He hefted it warningly. 

"Untie him, bitch." 

"I didn't call you," Sam pointed out, trying to work a hand loose.

Dean made a face, "Dude, are you serious? Trying to save your ass here." 

"Don't move any further."

Sam was pleased to hear a note of panic in her voice at the sight of the shotgun, but he looked up urgently at the words. Dean stopped in his tracks, though he managed to make it look natural, planned. 

"All right lady, let's just talk this out ok. You let my brother go, and I won't - "

"Shut up," she said coldly. 

Dean did, mid syllable, an irritated expression going over his face. Sam's heart dropped to his stomach as the woman's eyes narrowed speculatively. 

"Drop the gun," she snapped. 

It clattered to the floor. 

"Take off your shirt." 

"What the fuck?" Dean hissed, but he was already pulling the gray T-shirt over his head. 

She smiled. 

"Didn't think that would work, but this is pretty interesting, isn't it? Looks like someone gave you a nice little gift." 

"Gift?" Sam said, curious, unable to stop himself. "You know what this is?" 

She shrugged at him. 

"Honey, I just raised five revenants and kicked your ass. You can damn well bet I know what this is. Fairy work. Stinks of it." 

She jerked her head at Dean. "Your Daddy piss off anyone off lately? Got a well meaning but moronic fairy godmother hanging around?" 

Dean shook his head, "Hah, I _wish_." 

"A gift of obedience," Sam whispered. 

She laughed at that, "I guess that'd make you the smart one? Well, doesn't really matter, considering you just tried to kill me." 

Her eyes turn cold again. 

"Take your knife out of your boot."

Quick eyes then. Dean frowned, and Sam could see he was trying to resist again, sweat breaking out over his forehead, but he buckled with a sigh, bending down to take out the knife. 

"Good boy." 

"Now walk over to your brother." 

Sam couldn't even stop to wonder how she knew, breath is coming quick as Dean moved over, face screwed tight, steps hesitant.

She smiled, a slow, awful thing that curled across her face.

"It isn't a pretty thing, is it? With family?" She looked at Dean, still a length away. "Closer, darling."

Dean obeyed, helpless. 

"That's it, now stab him in the heart." 

 

 

"Don't!" Sam whispered again.

It had to be at least the fifth time back and forth between the woman and him. Dean was crouched between them, one hand clutching his head, the other in a white knuckled grip around the hilt of the his knife. 

"I said, stab him, you little son of a bitch!"

All pretense of gentility had bled from her voice, harsh now like glass. 

"Dean, don't listen to her," Sam said, wincing as Dean let out a low moan, body jerking. 

"Actually, yes, _Dean_ , please do." 

Sam was shocked to see moisture drip to the floor underneath Dean's hunched head. 

"Dean," he said, agonized, "don't do it." 

The woman rolled her eyes. 

"All right, boys, this has been mighty fun, but I'm getting bored." 

She dug something out of a pocket and worked a gag securely around Sam's head. 

"Ok, Dean, now be a good boy, do as I say, and stab your brother in the heart so I can get back to making dinner." 

When Dean looked up, Sam could see where he'd bitten clean through his lip, and the glitter of tears in his lashes. There was sweat and strain soaking his bare back, and he stared at the woman, something dark flaring in his eyes. 

But slowly, slowly, he got up, gripping the knife, moving in on Sam. 

"I'm sorry." 

It was a choked whisper. 

Sam struggled in his bonds, screaming, muffled behind the gag, thinking maybe, maybe, if he could just dislocate his thumb or something, slip it out. He felt the point of the knife pressing through the thin cloth of his shirt, slowly sinking in until the first prick of pain made him flinch. Dean was crying freely now, as Sam had never seen him do, face folded in like a painting. 

"Thank you, dear," the woman said serenely, and Sam had never wanted to strangle anyone more in his entire life. 

Sam looked Dean straight in the eye, red with tears, tried thinking the million things that were going through his head, shocked that this might really be it, when it seemed they'd only just started again. 

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't do this. Please don't do this. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, not brave enough to say it aloud or to look Dean in the face Not for this. This would kill Dean as surely as it killed him and he couldn't, he couldn't - 

Then there was a shallow streak of fire across his chest, and he heard a thump of flesh on the floor. Terrified for Dean, his eyes snapped open. 

The woman had tumbled to the floor, blade lodged firmly in her throat, eyes blank and open as the blood gurgled around the metal helplessly. 

Dean knelt in front of him, breath hitching, wiping tears, sweat from his eyes, face.

There were hands stroking his hair back from Sam's face, gliding wonderingly over his features, pressing against the shallow slash on his chest from where Dean must have jerked the knife. 

"Sammy, oh God, Sam, I thought - " 

He didn't finish the sentence, something terribly open in his face, so naked that Sam felt uncomfortable looking at him, as if he wasn't meant to see it. Dean just yanked the knife viciously out of the woman's throat and started sawing at the ropes, mouth swollen and bleeding. 

 

 

"Change the music." 

Nothing. 

"Talk to me." 

Nothing. 

"Suck me off." 

Nothing, but there was an amused glance.

"Well," said Sam, "looks like it's gone for good." 

Dean looked straight ahead at the road, but his voice was soft around its edges.

"Hey, your chest ok?" 

Sam rubbed the stinging wound over Dean's efficient bandages. "It's fine, just a flesh wound." He laughed. "Always wanted to say that."

There was a strained sort of silence from the other side of the car.

"Jesus, Sammy, I was this close, I could have - "

"Don't," Sam said gently. "You stopped yourself, against a curse. That's enough. Hell, that's more than enough." 

"Did you say anything? Whisper it?" Dean looked tense, strained. 

"Nothing. Just thought about it." 

He grinned, "Maybe I _am_ a psychic." 

That got a laugh out of Dean.

"Listen, Dean, about the other thing - "

"What other thing?"

Obliviousness was Dean's specialty.

"In the, you know, fuck, _Dean_ \- "

"Tell me to shut up?"

Sam stared. "What?" 

Dean spent the next hour describing the other best fucks he'd ever had in lurid, smirking detail and a deep drawl that had Sam's cock twitching. 

Sam shifted in his seat uncomfortably, erection straining against his jeans. 

"I hate you so much right now." 

"Whatever dude," Dean jerked his head at the bulge in Sam's pants, "just don't get any of that on my upholstery, got it?"


End file.
